


The Death of Me

by Damkianna



Category: The Firm (TV)
Genre: Angst, Antagonism, Bad Decisions, Canon-Typical Violence, Drinking to Cope, Dubious Consent, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fingerfucking, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Major Character Injury, Post-Canon, Protectiveness, Rescue, Self-Destruction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-07
Updated: 2020-05-07
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:53:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24050008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Damkianna/pseuds/Damkianna
Summary: Not enough. Not nearly enough."Again," Mitch croaks.The Russian raises his eyebrows."Come on," Mitch says, and makes the effort to enunciate, tries not to let his bruised face and split lips make him mushmouthed. "Come on. Is that the best you can do?"
Relationships: Mitch McDeere/Joey Morolto Jr.
Comments: 5
Kudos: 10
Collections: Hurt Comfort Exchange 2020





	The Death of Me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sandrine Shaw (Sandrine)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sandrine/gifts).



> That "something happens to Mitch's family and he loses it" prompt grabbed me by the brain and wouldn't let go—so please enjoy this helping of self-destructive Mitch almost managing to get himself killed, Joey murdering everybody who touched him, unexpected feelings/tenderness, and, of course, bad idea sex that should have turned out much worse than it does! And happy Hurt/Comfort Ex. ♥ :D
> 
> This does not contain either actual suicide or gunplay to a great enough degree that it seemed necessary to tag for it, but _does_ include discussion of what is effectively an attempt at the former, and a smattering of dirty talk involving the latter. Consent is technically present but kind of dubious because no one is in a particularly good frame of mind here.

"Not so smart now, eh?"

Mitch spits blood on the floor, and tries not to laugh. It's tempting. But he doesn't want to give the game away; and it would be a bad idea anyway, judging by the sharp hot ache in his ribs, the deep throb of pain settling into his chest.

"Not so clever," the Russian carries on, and then hits him again, harder. Across the face, a bright line along the slope of his cheek—the outside, where the Russian's knuckles hit bone, and the inside, where Mitch's own teeth cut in. The swing has power behind it, too, enough to tip Mitch sideways all the way to the limit of the chains holding him up, enough to make his shoulders ache with a pulse of protest where he's hanging by the arms.

Not enough. Not nearly enough.

"Again," Mitch croaks.

The Russian raises his eyebrows.

"Come on," Mitch says, and makes the effort to enunciate, tries not to let his bruised face and split lips make him mushmouthed. "Come on. Is that the best you can do?"

"What kind of question is that to ask a man who can have you fed to dogs while you are still alive?" the Russian murmurs, sounding amused.

Mitch lets his eyes fall shut. God, if only. What's the fucking holdup? He'll settle for being shot in the head if he has to.

Anything. _Anything_.

"But then," the Russian adds, "I suppose there is not so much for you to live for, these days. You should not have made Mr. Volkov so upset. That way your pretty wife, your little girl, they might not be dead, eh?"

Mitch squeezes his eyes shut tighter, and breathes. "Again," he whispers. "Again. Come on—"

And the Russian laughs, and obeys him. A blow, another, until he can't hold himself up at all, swinging slackly, hanging by his screaming wrists; going under, he thinks dimly, but then the Russian stops and sighs, barking an order Mitch can't understand.

Water, in a cold shock against his face. Mitch gasps, dragged back into himself, blinking the drips out of his eyes.

"I fear I cannot let you go just yet, Mr. McDeere," the Russian says, mild. "You understand, I hope. Mr. Volkov is _very_ upset. He takes these things so personally."

The Russian pauses, and reaches out, pats Mitch's cheek once and then again in a parody of comfort.

"But there will be no other way out for you," he says softly. "No one is coming for you, Mr. McDeere."

Which is only the truth. The thing the Russian doesn't understand, Mitch thinks distantly, is that it isn't frightening to hear.

It's a reassurance. It's a blessing.

It had taken so much time and effort to be sure of it. The drinking had given Mitch a leg up, luckily; Tammy had hated it, and Ray hated anything Tammy hated. But still, Mitch had had to shout at him, scream at him, throw a bottle at his head hard enough that it had smashed against the office wall behind him when he'd ducked—it had taken a lot, to drive Ray away to a safe distance. He's still leaving voicemails on Mitch's phone every two or three days.

Mitch had sat and listened to them while he drank, sometimes.

Louis was easier. Just a stark refusal of the Marshals' protection; nothing Louis could do about it. And Mitch had been careful not to go too far, with Louis. He still needs to be willing to open an envelope with Mitch's return address on it, after all.

But he isn't coming, either. He won't know about any of this until it's over.

All that's left is for it to _be_ over. Fucking Russians. Apparently Volkov's attention to detail sets an example his subordinates like to emulate.

Mitch tries everything he can think of. He spits blood on the Russian instead of on the floor; swears at him, insults his mother and his sister and his dick.

But none of it works. The Russian hits him, and hits him, and hits him, and still doesn't kill him, and Mitch can't figure out how to make him.

He almost slips away a couple more times.

That part's not so bad, he decides. The pain takes him out of his head, just enough—almost as well as a bottle would, and faster. Which is great, because god knows he doesn't want to be in there anymore, not if he can help it.

And surely, no matter how long it takes, they're still going to execute him when they're done with him, when Volkov's satisfied with extracting his pound of flesh an ounce at a time. He just has to remember that. They won't leave him like this. Not for long.

He thinks it must be time, when it all grinds to a halt. Only one of his eyes will still open; the other's fat and swollen, crusted over with blood. But he takes a blurry peek, and the Russian's backing off, stepping away to the table in the corner, the bucket on it—the rest of the water, they hadn't thrown it all on Mitch. Dipping his fingers in: washing his hands.

Doesn't want to get blood on the grip of his gun, Mitch dares to hope.

But he doesn't shoot Mitch. He turns away, says something, and then—and then the door's opening.

Last thing Mitch wants. There's no way out of this for him; there isn't supposed to be. Even the suggestion of the possibility is more than he wants. He flinches, squeezes his good eye shut, twists away from the open doorway.

More voices. Not just the Russian and his pals who've been helping out. New ones.

Volkov, Mitch realizes dimly.

Volkov, and—

And—

"—given me quite a bit of trouble," Volkov is saying. "I understand you have had a similar experience."

"Yeah," says Joey Morolto, Jr. "You could say that."

Mitch hangs there, dully stunned.

None of this was supposed to have anything to do with Joey. Karpov solved Mitch's problems months ago by having Patrick murdered in lockup before the trial was over; Joey had been too overwhelmed with fury, almost enough to drown out the grief underneath, to do anything but snap at Mitch to get the hell out of his sight—that Mitch's job was done, that Joey had no use for him anymore, that they were even.

Ray had heard a rumor, back in the early days of Mitch's next case, that maybe Joey had been in negotiations with a different bunch of Russians, Karpov's competitors. But that had been way before that case had sent Mitch walking right into the middle of Volkov's operation without realizing it. That had been before—

That had been before any of it. It had never even occurred to Mitch that Joey's Russian might be Volkov.

And yet, when he sucks in an unsteady breath and cracks his good eye again, that's—that's who it is. Standing in the doorway next to Volkov, in an even darker, sleeker suit than usual. Joey Morolto, face unreadable, looking at Mitch with steady pale eyes.

"You may have him, if you like," Volkov says, amiable. "A gesture of goodwill. A gift."

Joey doesn't answer for a long moment. He's still staring at Mitch.

"Gee," he says at last. "That's real generous of you, buddy. But I'm afraid those terms aren't going to work for me."

And then he pulls a gun from the waistband of his slacks, smooth, easy, so casual it's almost hard to grasp what he's doing, that it's something dangerous; and he shoots Volkov in the head.

An instant of perfect silence. A shout, Russian—but Joey didn't come alone, has two of his guys at his shoulders, and they might not have been expecting that any more than Volkov was, but they know what they're supposed to do when angry Russians pull guns on their boss. Three quick shots, four, and the Russians are down.

"Go," Joey says, and his guys duck their heads and hurry into the room, checking bodies, looking for movement. One Russian groans, weak, and the next sound is an unhesitating double-tap.

And then Joey's—Joey's right there, one hand spread out across Mitch's chest, the other up at the chain looping around one of his bleeding wrists.

"Keys," Joey snaps.

His guys murmur to each other. A quick flurry of movement, somewhere further away than Joey, and keys are placed in Joey's hand.

And Mitch had been watching it all, dazed, a million miles away, hardly understanding what he was seeing; but the jangle of the chains, the sensation of his wrist coming free, wakes him up. "No," he says, blank, hoarse.

"Jesus Christ, McDeere, the shit you get yourself into—"

"No," Mitch says, louder. "No—get away from me. Get the fuck away from me—"

No. _No_. Not now, not when he's so fucking close. God, not now.

"Fat fucking chance," Joey spits, and pulls Mitch's slack arm over his shoulders before he goes for the other wrist.

"You bastard," Mitch mutters into the collar of Joey's stupid fucking suit jacket. "You _bastard_. You owe me, you son of a bitch. You _owe_ me."

He can't breathe; his eyes ache, hot, wet.

This was supposed to be it. He had it all figured out. The last decent thing left that he could do, taking down Volkov while he was at it. And Joey's ruined it.

Joey's ruined it, and he fucking owes Mitch for that.

"Do it," Mitch gasps. "Do it. Joey—"

He's always wanted to. He must want to. There's no reason why he should say no.

But then again Joey's never been all that interested in making Mitch's life easier.

Or his death, apparently.

"Will you please shut the fuck up," Joey bites out, stonefaced, and frees Mitch's other wrist.

Mitch drifts for a while after that.

There's a car. Joey isn't touching him anymore, but is still right there, barking out orders. Mitch is getting blood on the seat. That's probably why Joey looks so angry.

Then everything gets very dark, and very quiet.

Mitch doesn't surface again until he's somewhere else, the car long gone. He's lying down, but not on a carseat. There's a window, light pouring in.

The next time, the way he's facing has changed. His bad eye's still swollen, but it opens again; someone's wiped the blood off his face, his eyelashes, so the lid isn't crusted shut anymore. A room, he registers blurrily. Pretty big one.

He fades out again.

He doesn't know how long he goes on like that. But it must be a while, because the light's not the same as he remembers from the car, the window the first time he saw it, when he actually manages to come around for real.

He still aches. His face, his shoulders, his chest. But it's a duller throb than it was, and he lets his eyes fall shut again and revises his estimate of how long he's been out upward. He only mostly feels like shit. That must have taken a while.

He shifts a little, testing. Breathing in too deeply sends a spike of pain lancing through his ribs; some of them must've at least cracked. But he doesn't remember the Russian getting as far as breaking his fingers, his hands, and he seems to be right about that. His wrists, his shoulders, burn with strain. He probably sprained at least one, hanging from them when his legs couldn't hold him anymore, swinging around when he was struck. But he can feel them, and he can move his hands, his fingers. Must not have gotten much nerve damage.

That's good, he thinks automatically, and then huffs a bitter little laugh through his nose.

Good is relative, and it was never supposed to matter whether he had nerve damage. He's supposed to be dead by now, goddammit.

But for some reason, Joey hasn't taken care of that part yet.

Mitch draws a slow breath, shallow enough to keep his ribs quiet, and opens his eyes.

And the first thing he sees is Joey. Sitting there, arms crossed, cuffs unbuttoned and sleeves shoved to his elbows, watching Mitch with sharp eyes: like the second Mitch was awake, he knew it, and he's just been waiting for Mitch to admit it.

"Have a nice nap?" Joey murmurs, mild.

Mitch lets his eyes fall shut again. Nap. Hell of a choice of words. God, he is so fucking tired.

Maybe he'll just lie here, not say a word; die of thirst, of hunger. The idea's got a certain grim appeal.

But, of course, there's still Joey.

"So, you feel like filling me in on what the hell you were doing in there, Mitch? Because I have to tell you, if you had a plan then I don't think it was working—"

"It was working fine," Mitch snaps, and instantly regrets it. Joey's difficult, infuriating, a dozen other much less complimentary things; but he's not stupid.

And, sure enough: "Was it," Joey says after a beat, thoughtful, hardly even a question. "I assume if you were just trying to get yourself killed, you'd have settled for stepping in traffic weeks ago, or you'd have finished drowning yourself in scotch."

Mitch blinks once, twice, stares at the wall. He doesn't want to look at Joey, but he finds he's distantly surprised. He hadn't known Joey had been paying attention anymore. He hadn't realized Joey knew about the drinking.

"You wanted Volkov to do it," Joey's concluding slowly. "You wanted Volkov to do it, you were—you were setting him up. You left evidence for Coleman, so once you were reported missing or your body showed up in the river, he'd have something to pin on Volkov. Is that it?"

Mitch turns his face away, and doesn't answer. He's prepared for bewilderment, incomprehension. Disdain, icy mockery.

He isn't prepared for the way Joey laughs.

"My god," Joey says, warm, amused. "I guess I should've known, huh? Couldn't just settle for any old idiotic self-destructive bullshit, oh, no. No, that's not good enough for Mitch McDeere. You can't just check out like the rest of us. You can't just throw your life away for nothing, even when you don't want it anymore. You've got to make sure it's worth something. You've got to take down the second-biggest Russian mobster on the eastern seaboard, on your way out. Jesus fucking Christ."

Mitch squeezes his eyes shut. "And it would've worked," he grits out, "if it hadn't been for you."

A moment of perfect silence. And then, abruptly, hands on him, a lancing ache through his torso as Joey grips him by the shoulder, the chin, grabs his face and turns it, presses into the bruising along his jaw until it throbs. Mitch jerks in his grasp, chokes out a wordless protesting noise, and glares, and Joey glares right back.

"Oh, yeah?" Joey sneers. "Did I get in the way, Mitch? Did I mess up your honorable self-sacrifice, your perfect utilitarian suicide? What a goddamn shame."

"Shut _up_ ," Mitch spits at him, throat tight.

"Volkov's dead now," Joey tells him, sharp, unflinching. "You've got no excuse, not anymore. If you want out, you're going to have to admit it's all about you, you selfish fucking bastard—"

Mitch laughs in his face. It's hoarse, cracking—the best he can do. "Me? You _took it from me_ , damn you. You _stole_ it. I was—I would have—" He shakes his head, squeezes his burning eyes shut. It was all he had left, the one remaining purpose he'd found to keep himself breathing. He can't fix it. He can't get them back. But he thought at least, at the very least, he could take down Volkov. Destroy him.

Destroy him, the way he'd destroyed Mitch.

"You piece of shit," Mitch hears himself say, and digs his nails into Joey's wrists, shoves an elbow in to try to catch Joey in the ribs, thrashes and kicks and does his level best to knee Joey in the balls.

Joey curses at him. Struggles, grapples, to hold him down, pin him—and it doesn't take that much, in the end, because Mitch is still black-and-blue, aching, wheezing ragged breaths through a dry throat.

And then, once Joey's got a handle on him again, Joey slows. Joey slows, and his hold gentles a little, and he's staring at Mitch.

That's when Mitch becomes aware, dimly, of the words coming out of his own mouth. "—owe me, you _owe_ me. You can't leave me like this. Please don't leave me like this—"

— _please, please, don't make me keep living through this_ —

"Jesus," Joey says, almost soft. "Really fucked you up, huh, McDeere?"

Mitch almost laughs again, bewildered, hysterical. As if there's another option, after Abby—after _Claire_ —as if there's any way there could be anything left of him worth saving, after that.

Except the laugh doesn't make it out. Something else does, a hard strangled noise, and his eyes are wet, wet, and he can't make it stop.

He falters. Stops fighting, lets himself go slack. Sinks back down into the bed, underneath Joey.

It's strange, Joey over him like this. Joey touching him, hands all over him, palms spread out wide and warm, thighs around Mitch's where Mitch hadn't quite managed to connect that knee to his groin after all.

Nobody's touched Mitch at all in—in a while now. Not except for the Russian, anyway, and Mitch is pretty sure that shouldn't count.

Maybe it's something about that that makes the idea occur to him. The heat of Joey against him. The sensation, abrupt, intense, almost too much, where he'd been going steadily numb before.

Or maybe it's the way Joey's looking at him: steady, close, a little wary, like he's not sure what the hell Mitch is going to do next.

Their past history apparently isn't enough to convince Joey to take him out. And anger doesn't seem to be working either. But maybe it's just the wrong kind. Maybe this will piss him off at last, the clear murderous rage Mitch is aiming for set alight. Or—

That'll work too. If he goes along, if he actually does it—that'll work too. That'll burn Mitch down. That'll be as thorough a self-destruction, a self-immolation, as Mitch can possibly ask for.

So Mitch bites his lip, relishing the sting, and doesn't move: doesn't try to push Joey away again. Just lies there, surrendered, in Joey's grasp.

"If you won't put me out of my misery," he rasps, "then what _are_ you going to do with me?"

Joey's eyebrows leap. "I feel like I should be insulted," he says after a moment, tone contemplative. "That that's your next move, _second_ to getting yourself murdered by angry Russians. That's hurtful, Mitch. It really is." He pauses, and then he reaches up and touches Mitch's face.

Gently, this time. If that's a word that can reasonably be applied to anything Joey Morolto does. Mitch wanted it to hurt, but—it doesn't.

And he wasn't expecting the way it feels instead.

"On the other hand," Joey murmurs, "I guess there are probably worse ways to get you off this whole 'death wish' thing for ten minutes. Not, you know, a lot of them. But a couple, I'm sure."

Mitch closes his eyes, and swallows. "Well, come on, then," he says. "What are you waiting for?"

"I'm doing you a favor here," Joey informs him. "I hope you realize that. You look like refried shit right now." And Joey's striving for a level tone, almost there; but Mitch feels his hand dip down to Mitch's collar, the shirt still stiff and creased with blood, and as Joey's fingertips tighten around the first button, Mitch can hear his voice catch.

He doesn't know what to do with that. It makes his stomach lurch sideways, off-balance. It makes his skin prickle.

He bites the inside of his cheek, and lies there, and lets Joey work his shirt open.

Joey doesn't seem to be in any rush. He goes one button at a time, steady, and then pulls the sides apart—doesn't yank it off Mitch, either, doesn't start shoving it off his shoulders. He just tugs it open, and then makes a low sound that isn't sexy at all.

"Jesus, McDeere. They really worked you over."

Mitch risks a glance. Joey's looking down at his chest, at—oh, of course. The bruising. The Russian had kicked him a few times, too, before stringing him up with those chains and switching to fists. Steel-toed boots.

But there's no reason why Joey should give a shit about that.

"Just get to it," Mitch says aloud, jaw tight.

"You really know how to get a guy in the mood," Joey observes, but—but he isn't getting up, he doesn't move away. He touches Mitch's chest, follows the curves of his ribs, thumbs the line of his waist. Reaches Mitch's hips, hooks his fingers in Mitch's waistband; and then stops, and doesn't go for his fly. Reaches down, instead, and slides the heel of his hand idly, assessingly, over Mitch's dick.

Mitch isn't hard. Mitch—wasn't hard. Still mostly isn't, but the weight of Joey's hand, the warmth, that persistent friction, isn't nothing. Mitch got beaten half to death, he's exhausted. It takes time, builds itself up slow. But Joey doesn't stop. After a few long minutes, he's got Mitch worked up to half-hard, worked up to actually getting somewhere, and within the space of a breath Mitch can't stand it.

His heart is pounding. He's breathing hard. He hadn't quite noticed it happening, but Joey must be able to hear it, and somehow that's too much. That, even more than the hand on his dick.

He jerks, twists away from Joey's hand, except there isn't anywhere to go. Joey's got him pinned down, caged in. "Come on," he snaps, "just fucking—" and he shoves at Joey, shoulders screaming. "Come _on_."

For a moment, Joey's still.

And then his mouth twists, and he says coolly, "Oh, I see. Is this how you want it?"

He grabs for Mitch's fly, flicks the button through in an instant and jerks the sides apart so the zipper makes a harsh sound. Yanks Mitch's slacks down, his briefs, and grabs for his bare ass, unhesitating, overwhelming—Mitch can hardly keep track of what he's doing, doesn't even have a chance to try to move out from under his hands.

"Joey," he hears himself gasp.

"Fine," Joey says. "Fine, you asshole."

He takes one hand away, shoves two fingers into his own mouth: it's a startling image, obscene, Joey Morolto holding himself up over Mitch with one hand and sucking so lewdly on the other, eyes bright and hot and fixed on Mitch the whole time.

And then he tugs those wet fingers back out, and says, "Fine," again, and Mitch has about a second to realize what he's probably going to do with them, and then it's—Joey's touching his ass again, gripping it, pressing his fingertips _in_. Just a little too hard, just a little too much, and Mitch makes a helpless shocked sound at the rough edge to it, the stretch and the burn; his hips tense themselves up, not sure whether to pull away from the sensation or shove back into it.

Joey smiles at him, a grim, hard shadow of the real thing.

"Just imagine, Mitch. If you'd let that son of a bitch off you, you'd have missed this. Wouldn't that have been a shame?"

"Oh, god. God, fuck—"

"I think that would have been a shame," Joey muses, and shoves both fingers in a knuckle deeper.

Mitch cries out, startled. His thighs spread themselves wider, the open waist of his slacks drawn taut around them.

Jesus, he thinks dazedly. This was a worse idea than the bottle, the Russians, ever were; but right this second it sure doesn't feel like it.

Even the pain in the rest of his body has settled into a feeling almost too close to the ache in his ass, his cock, for comfort. The weight of his dick against his thigh, the throb of it, is getting mixed up in his head with the twinges of his shoulders, his wrists, his ribs; the dull pang of the bruising across his face, the singing sting of his split lips.

"Joey," he says again, and Joey smiles that hard smile and eases his fingers out, pushes them in again even deeper, and it's such a clean blazing feeling, right through the middle of him, that Mitch's eyes prickle wetly all over again. He squeezes them shut, reaches out unseeingly and grips what turns out to be the slope of Joey's shoulder, finds the nape of his neck from there and holds on tight. " _Joey_."

"I wonder what you thought I was going to do with you," Joey says, and it comes out almost perfectly even, only the barest rasp at the edges of the words. "Besides shoot you in the head, obviously. Just—roll you over and stick it in?" He pauses. "Roll you over and stick the _gun_ in," and holy fuck, no, that hadn't crossed Mitch's mind at all, but now the mental image is blooming into technicolor. Jesus. "Made you suck it first, maybe, so it would go in a little easier. Help you transition from one fantasy to the other: death wish to sex wish in four simple steps. I'm a considerate guy that way."

He twists his hand a little, starts forcing his thumb in beside his fingers. Mitch chokes on a noise he probably shouldn't have let out anyway.

"No," Joey says, as if agreeing. "I know, I know. You weren't thinking about any of that. You just wanted somebody to fuck you up, because you're gone but not so far gone that you can do it yourself. You wanted somebody to fuck you up, and you thought I would."

Mitch throws his head back, grits his teeth, rolls his hips in an awkward painful stutter against Joey's hand; it's too much, it makes half his ribs sharpen from ache to agony, but god, fuck, fuck, he can't stop himself.

"Well," Joey says, "that's just too goddamn bad."

And that's all the warning Mitch has before Joey leans in on an elbow, grips Mitch's face in his free hand, and kisses him.

He's pinned: between Joey and the bed, between Joey's fingers in his ass and Joey's mouth on his, Joey's hand framing his chin. He thrashes, reflexive, half-panicked, and Joey rides it out and doesn't let go, kisses him harder, tongue against the wet sore curve of his lower lip.

"Don't you fucking dare," Joey says against the corner of his mouth, easing back just far enough to get it out and no further before kissing him again.

He can't do this, Mitch thinks wildly, dizzily. This isn't—he can't do this. _Mitch_ can't do this. Mitch already killed the part of himself that could do this, that could kiss people and mean it; there isn't anything left.

There isn't supposed to be anything left.

He lies there, shaking, and Joey kisses him, fucks him steadily with three fingers at the same time, doesn't ease up or back off. He realizes after a minute, distantly, that Joey's saying something else between kisses, something new: "Come on. Come on, you jackass. Don't do this to me. Come on, for fuck's sake—"

Mitch sucks in a sharp breath against Joey's mouth, and Joey goes still all at once. Mitch has that hand at the nape of his neck, still, and fumbles the other up to span Joey's cheek. Holds him away just long enough to look at him, and they stare at each other like that for a second, breathing hard, balanced together on the knife's edge.

"Fuck you," Mitch says unsteadily, and drags him down, and kisses him back.

He splits his lip open again in what feels like at least three places. It hurts; it makes Joey's mouth taste like blood. It doesn't matter. Mitch can't stop kissing him.

He thought he was dead already. He thought all there was left to do was figure out how to make his body lie down and cooperate.

But somehow he must have been wrong.

Joey moves against him, and Mitch realizes with a vague sense of surprise that he's—jesus, he's close. Joey's fingers in him only stopped for a minute, and whatever this thing is that Joey's kindled in him, this unrecognizable thing that isn't anger or grief or the dark swallowing him down, Mitch is lighting up with it like live current, skin hot with sparks.

All it takes, in the end, is a jolt from Joey's fingers, the pressure of Joey's hip against Mitch's cock. Mitch gasps into Joey's mouth and shudders with it, clenching helplessly around the shape of Joey's fingers inside of him, and Joey swears at Mitch and then sucks Mitch's tongue into his mouth while Mitch is still shivering with the aftershocks.

Once Mitch has caught his breath, he makes himself look up. Joey raises an eyebrow at him, and Mitch swallows and tries to spread his shaking thighs again, to make it easier for Joey to draw his fingers back out.

"You—"

"Give it a minute," Joey advises, despite the way his own cock is visibly straining in his pants. "You still look like shit. You pass out, I don't get mine, nobody's happy."

Mitch swallows half a laugh. Jesus.

Joey looks at him like he heard it anyway, assessing, amused.

And then his eyes go sharp and steady again, and he says, "You're going to be okay, Mitch."

Mitch closes his eyes, and breathes.

A day ago, he'd been sure that would never be true again. But now, like this, hearing Joey say it, somehow he's not surprised to find that all at once, he can believe it.


End file.
